


Follow your dreams in through every out-door

by wintercreek



Series: Nightsongs and Lullabies [2]
Category: due South
Genre: Community: ds_flashfiction, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-05-21
Updated: 2009-05-21
Packaged: 2017-10-02 10:09:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wintercreek/pseuds/wintercreek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But what they had on the phone just now was simpler, more pure perhaps - and so here he is, on her doormat, waiting to be admitted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Follow your dreams in through every out-door

**Author's Note:**

> For the Apology Challenge at [ds_flashfiction](http://community.livejournal.com/ds_flashfiction/).

He feels like they're always apologizing to each other. Awkward linguistic missteps, crossed wires, flustered faces averted - he cannot have an easy conversation with this woman. It is amazingly frustrating.

But what they had on the phone just now was simpler, more pure perhaps - and so here he is, on her doormat, waiting to be admitted. He starts to fidget with the bag in his hand and then schools himself to stillness.

Meg opens the door, shoeless and wearing RCMP sweats and no makeup. Benton's never seen her look so unguarded. "Fr- Benton." She smiles, a little embarrassed but determined not to be stopped by it. She's seldom called him by his given name, and never with such tenacity. "Come in, please."

He takes off his hat as he enters. Her apartment is quiet save for the whistling of the tea kettle; her walls are painted a cool white and hung with tasteful photographs and paintings. He cannot imagine a child here, among the nice furniture and spare, elegant decoration. In his heart, he apologizes to her for thinking such a thing. Surely she would find ways to accommodate a child.

Benton leaves his hat on the low table by the door and moves into the kitchen. There is a variety of tea on the counter beside two mugs. Meg is already making hers: herbal, something fruity and probably non-caffeinated. She gestures wordlessly for him to choose a tea of his own.

"I brought you something." Benton lifts the bag in his hand and presents it to her.

Meg furrows her brow. "It's ... cold." She sets it on the counter and pulls the plastic down to reveal the carton of ice cream within. "Benton. Ice cream?"

He smiles, looking down at her stocking feet, his boots, side by side on the kitchen tile. "You did say you needed a friend," Benton explains, lifting his gaze to meet hers. "In my experience, that particular sentiment is best met with both companionship and dessert."

"You're quite right." She pulls out bowls and spoons while he makes his tea. The ice cream is cookie dough, her guilty favorite if he recalls correctly. The look she gives him when she sees it - only the smallest curve to her lips, but the corners of her eyes have crinkled in pleasure - suggests that his memory is accurate.

They take their tea and ice cream into Meg's living room and sit at opposite ends of her couch, half-facing each other. Meg tucks her feet under her. She looks smaller than usual this evening. Perhaps it is her clothes - Benton knows that it is considered unusual for him to be seen out of uniform, but he finds it even more unusual to see Meg Thatcher dressed down.

She tells him about the paperwork, the home inspections, the fees, the lawyers. About her dreams, and the rocking chair that stands in her second bedroom. About the disappointment and the emptiness. He listens, nods, makes the appropriate sympathetic noises. When she comes to a halt, he drops his eyes to consider the best response. Meg's drawn her knees up to her chest and pulled her socks off somewhere during the course of the conversation. Her toenails are painted silver. Benton has never known her to wear nail polish, but, of course, he's never had an opportunity before to consider that she might paint her toenails. He thinks that this is the best encapsulation of Meg he can imagine: hidden, delicate details where one might never think to look.

He meets her eyes. They are sad, the inner ends of her eyebrows raised in telling expression. "Meg," he starts. "I'm so sorry. I wish things were different. I wish- I'm so sorry." He opens his arms and she curls into them. They sit there a long while; nothing else needs to be said.


End file.
